


The Young Ones Always Die Frightened

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-02-03
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:59:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In their last moments, the heirs of Durin learn of what is fair.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Young Ones Always Die Frightened

Thorin Oakenshield considers himself many things, but a father he never was, and indeed now never will be. That’s why, even after all those years, his sister-sons can still surprise him with their affection and their faith in him, unabashed, pure. That’s why he’s always done his best to be a good, strict teacher to them.

That’s why he cries out in horror when they jump in front of his battered, wounded frame, to protect him from the coming foes.

_No_ , he wants to shout at them, _I am not your father. Do not protect me as you would protect him._ For it is an honorable death among his kind - to perish for one’s parent. Thorin would have laid his life for Thráin, if only he had been able to find him. But the lives of Fíli and Kíli are infinitely more important than Thorin’s, as it goes.  
He remembers Dís, _they would, you know they would, but don’t you dare let them_ , and the pure despair of failing her almost takes him over the threshold of the halls of his ancestors right there and then. His bloodied fingers close around the hilt of his sword once and for all, and he pours all his leftover resolve into forcing his body up.

He slays the bodyguard of Azog, but not before mortal wounds are dealt to both his nephews, and as the last orc falls, so does Thorin Oakenshield fall. _I have adorned you well_ , he thinks deliriously, almost blinded with pain, _fitting for the heirs of Durin_. Despite the blood and dirt, the armor of the young dwarrows still glints, Fíli’s fire red and gold like the last embers in a dying fire, Kíli’s green and blue and silver, like a meadow bathed in dew and moonlight. They cling to him as he cradles them, and they cry, and Thorin thinks of all the stubbed toes and bruised wrists and little cuts he tended to over the years, and he cries with them, and cries still when he presses his dry lips to both their heads and speaks reassuring words of the great glory of Mahal’s halls.  
It’s what neither of them wants, and all of them get, and the younglings will think it unfair, and indeed, there is a kingdom waiting for the three of them, a kingdom someone else will now restore, and Thorin thinks to himself, the weight of his boys in his arms slowly going stiff, _when was the last time you allowed yourself to think of anything as ‘unfair’?_

_When was the last time anything ‘fair’ ever happened to you?_

Fíli stirs, his head dropping, and Kíli’s grasp on Thorin’s arm loosens, _uncle, uncle, can we braid your hair? grow your beard so that we can put beads in it, ple-ease!_ , and it is then that his resolve is lost and he brings them closer, close to his mouth, tears trickling into their locks, fingers soothing the spots on the back of their necks that would always lull them to sleep, and he sings to them, a tune Dís taught him over Fíli’s cradle, and soon, they are gone and Thorin remains, and if he’s ever going to admit the unfairness of anything, this is it.

_They died frightened_ , he concedes to Gandalf as they wait for his own end to come, _and if they were ever undeserving of something, it was fear_.  
 _My dear fellow_ , the wizard sighs, _you speak of ‘deserving’ and ‘fear’ as if you were not a year older than your late nephews. But you are a man in need of indulgence, so I will say this - try to find justice - or the lack thereof - not in the things that are done to you, but in the ones you already have._  
Thorin watches Gandalf leave the tent in response to the sudden commotion outside - someone has been brought into the camp - and his insides writhe in agony, little comfort left for him in this world.   
_Uncle, wait! Teach us how to do that! Will Fíli be King soon? He’s hurting me! Am not! Uncle, are you alright? Uncle, let us come, too! Please, please, please! Oh, but we’re both over forty!  
...Thorin. Yes, we’d be honored._

When Thorin Oakenshield lays his eyes upon the hobbit burglar, faced with the greatest and only injustice he needs to repent for before he moves on, he finally understands what Gandalf meant.

_They were the last thing that happened to you, and they were indeed very, very fair._

**Author's Note:**

> First time on ao3, everything's scary oh wow. Anyway, an angsty idea I had about a week ago, without any real shape or form, but there you go.


End file.
